


Slow Burn

by Midnightraider



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Friendship/Love, M/M, Multi, Slow Build, long fic here we go, the enitre gang is here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 02:59:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5480768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midnightraider/pseuds/Midnightraider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Kirschtein has questions he wants answered. And he wants them now. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>In which Jean is an aspiring hunter within a carefully constructed society of rules and regulations. But as his questions continue to go unanswered, he begins to doubt the reality in which he was forced to partake in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow Burn

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic that's been waiting to be written for some time now. Hope you guys enjoy it!

There are times where people wonder the difference between dreaming and reality. What is real? What isn't? It's a never ending cycle of questions, some answers more obvious than others. Some simply unanswerable. Jean always seemed to be on the receiving end of the latter, his questions seeming to be too much for anyone to ever give a straight answer to, as if they were a taboo.

He never took it to heart though, his unanswered questions. He simply stored them deep down, far enough to be satisfied for the time being but not deep enough to be forgotten.

The people of Trost were like that, continuously moving on an invisible clock, their lives all synchronised to be at a certain place at a certain time, no questions asked. It was like this for as long as Jean could remember, people mindlessly following orders, walking past without so much of a thought of their own choices, their own free will.

He felt like an anomaly amongst an infinite sea of carefully constructed individuals. And as much as he longed for the answers to his questions, he would much rather be another face in the crowd.

Or at least that's what he tells himself.

Like most things in his life, Jean doesn't pay it too much attention. Instead he makes his way towards the training centre set up in the middle of the city. It wasn't hard to miss, seeing as it was the largest structure around, towering over the buildings and houses that littered the towns centre - dwarfing their structures with its sheer immensity.

Why the city needed such an eyesore? Jean would never know.

He didn't exactly have the time to mentally rant on about the uselessness of constructing such a huge building, or how shit the architects were to go with the lopsided designs that made up the structure, seeing as he was already late for his training session.

This was his usual routine. Wake up, get dressed, and head down to the training centre. It’s all he’s ever known how to do. All he’s ever been allowed to do. And he hates it, down to the very fibre of his core he hates that there was nothing else he could do to beside listen and obey. But what else could he do? There were consequences for those who stepped out of line. He’s seen it first-hand, what they do to people that try to break the rules, and it wasn’t something he wanted to risk for himself – no matter how much questions he had. It just wasn’t worth it.

So he sucks it up. Like usual.

\---

Striding inside the training centre, he loops a corner, noting how deserted the hallways were, and how unusually quiet the place seemed to be. Tugging the front of his cap down, he frowns, glancing around as he nears his assigned room, suddenly feeling uneasy.

Shoving the door open, he's almost relived to see his trainer waiting for him, though he fails to notice the displeased expression the other is wearing as Jean dumps his bag onto the table.

"You'd think that death itself cleared the hallways with how quiet everything is." He grunts out, beginning to unload his things. "I mean, this has got to be the clearest the centres' been since the last hunt."

When his trainer doesn't reply, Jean tenses, eyes flickering up and taking in the others expression. What he finds isn't the usual welcoming grin, or the amused roll of the eyes.

No.

What he finds is dark eyes staring him down, a displeased frown set against the freckles that littered the others face.

He was in deep shit.

Before he even has the chance to open his mouth, to say something that might help the situation, he's silenced. Not verbally, but by the touch of his mentors hand. Slender fingers wrapped tightly around Jean's wrist, projecting memories into his mind - reminding him of something he had forgotten. It was always uncomfortable when it happened, the memories popping up in the forefront of his mind, unfettered and vivid, more like he was reliving the moment than remembering it.

Today was the ceremony, before the final hunts were to begin.

And he was late. Very late.

As soon as the memory was there, it was ripped back, leaving his mind reeling, grasping for something, anything to fill the empty space that had been left behind in his head. Jean gave out a low grunt of discomfort at the sensation, and blinks his eyes rapidly before the figure of his trainer appeared back in front of him. He tried to jerk his wrist away, but found that he was still being held tightly.

"I get it Marco. I'm real fuckin' late, now would you let go of me?"

He guesses his reply isn't up to par, as he can practically feel Marco's gaze boring a hole through his cap and into his head. Jean doesn't see what the big deal is about being late to something he knows he's going to ace, and this time when he jerks his wrist back, he's released.

"Jean, this isn't a game."

He knew it was coming. Those famous four words that seemed to haunt him, that reminded him that despite all his resistance and questioning, he was still bound to Trost and its rules. He knew his place, knew where he belonged in the hierarchy that was this city, however much he might deny it. And Marco had the habit, like most hunters did, of reminding its citizens of these unforgettable rules.

Scowling, he rotates his wrist, fingers curling, then unfurling as he tried to get rid of the aftershocks of Marco’s touch. Jean had more than his fair share of complaints about this city, and the whole ‘projecting memories’ was by far his biggest issue. He tried his best to avoid skin to skin contact, seeing as that was the only way for the projection to fully work, but today his mind had been jumbled, and he’d forgotten to slip into his long sleeved combat attire.

Marco must have sensed his displeasure, and moves to slip on the gloves Jean had gotten him a while back – when they first started training together. Marco wasn’t like most hunters Jean had encountered, hell he was yet another irregularity within the entire system that had been constructed within Trost, and Jean was more than grateful that they had ended up paired together – two peas in a pod and all that other metaphorical bullshit.

Though he’d never mention it out loud.

Ever.

That didn’t mean Marco couldn’t have his moments, he was a hunter by nature and there were times he ceased to be Jean’s companion, instead becoming the authoritative figure he was supposed to be trained by - reminding Jean that, as much as he hated to admit it, their friendship was limited.

“Let’s go, we’re already late.” He bites out, ignoring the look of hurt that crosses Marco’s features. It was his job after all that hung on the line each time Jean stepped out of line, Marco’s reputation that depended on the successfulness of his trainee. Jean knows this, which is why he straps on his blades, securing them tightly on the side of his forearms, making sure they were sheathed before turning on his heels and heading towards the arena.

He was amongst the best of the succeeding candidates for a position within the ranks of the hunters, which usually excused Jean of his, otherwise inexcusable, behaviour. He took pride in that, the knowledge that he might one day be able to change this shitty system, to break down the barriers that held its citizens from thinking for themselves. However, he’d have to graduate amongst the top 10 in the final hunts to even have a shot of making that happen, and as it stands, it didn’t seem to be a far off dream.

\---

They’d already begun the ceremony, he can tell by the excitement that was buzzing in the air, by the way the desolate hallways shook with each cheer that resounded from the arena. Marco was walking beside him now, the hood of his combat attire pulled up, concealing his face from Jean.

He was tempted to say something, anything to get Marco to look over him with that toothy grin he always flashed him before a hunt, but they were being watched now, and breaking that facade would be detrimental for Marco’s wellbeing.

\---

As soon as they step into the arena, their gear glow, Jean’s giving off a pale grey, Marco’s almost black. It was the distinguishing factor between trainer and trainee. The darker colours were held by hunters, everything above that were held by trainees – like Jean. The arena was littered by these colours; the spectrum ranging from black to white, and then every colour in-between.

These colours determined the ranking of each individual within the arena, and which side of the arena they were to stand. Dark colours on the left, everyone else on the right.

Before he’s about to head to his assigned section, he feels Marco’s hand on his shoulder, a whisper of ‘good luck’ murmured lowly into his ear, and the smile he’d been longing for flashing on Marco’s lips for a second, then it’s gone. Along with Marco, who moves to the left side of the arena, joining the other hunters in the stands.

Begrudgingly, Jean goes to the right, telling himself that Marco’s words didn’t make him feel happy, that it was only the assurance he needed to boost his confidence. Walking up several flights of stairs, he lets his eyes flit about, taking in exactly how packed the arena was. This was probably the biggest batch of candidates he’d ever really seen, and he’d been training for several years. Spotting Connie and Sasha a couple of rows ahead of him, he tries to reroute, but they’ve spotted him, their identical smiles making him groan with regret.

“Jean!” Even their synchronised calling of his name has him cringing, wondering how he’d ever gotten stuck with these two as friends. But that’s yet another question Jean can’t seem to get an answer to.

With a heavy sigh, he slides in beside Connie, Sasha having moved to sit behind them, claiming that she felt like observing how much Connie’s head shined in this lighting. This in turn set off Connie to point out she just wanted to hide her snacks from the hunters, to which turned into a competition over who could make the dumbest face without laughing.

Jean doesn’t bother to get involved in their conversation, eyes staring over into the hunters section, searching for Marco. But it’s difficult when all of them are clocked in their hoods, the glow of their gear making their side of the arena look like the night sky on a new moon.

One of the head hunters, who Jean recalls is named Erwin, comes out, cloaked like the rest, his voice deep and bellowing as he speaks to the entirety of the arena.

_“As you all know, we will shortly begin the final stages of the training regimen. This will require all candidates to participate in the final hunts, which will be split into four separate events. All four of these hunts will be monitored and judged, and only the top ten ranking candidates will be offered a position to join the ranks of hunters. Those of you who do not make it into the ranks of hunters will be offered other jobs, such as patrol duties or may be reassigned to another city entirely.”_

Jean is nudged in the side by Connie, who’s watching him with wide eyes and a smile that could only mean mischief.

“Hear that? Why stick around to be a hunter when we could get out the city?”

Obviously he’s whispering, and Jean’s more than surprised that Connie of all people knows how to do that. But, he can’t even get his two cents in before Sasha leans in between the two, hands resting on their shoulders as she eagerly nods in agreement.

“Another city? Count me in!” Her voice come out much louder than a whisper, trainees around them watching with disapproval as they continue to listen in on Erwin’s speech.

“Imagine all the different food they’d have there.” She continues on, oblivious, or completely uncaring to the hushes that resound the second time around in response to her commentary.

With a roll of his eyes, Jean snorts, unable to help himself with the way his two friends were carrying on. Another city sure sounded good, but if it was anything like how Trost was, Jean wasn’t sure it’d be a means of escape, merely another continuation of the lives they were already living.

Plus he wasn’t sure if he’d want to risk it all just go get out.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts when clapping ensues, realising he didn’t catch the ending to Erwin’s speech. He’s sure he didn’t miss much, having known all the rules and expectations since the beginning of his training. With a sigh, he moves to stand up; before he’s tugged back down by the two trouble makers he calls friends.

“Can’t head out yet Jeanbo.” Sasha sings out, Connie stifling back a laugh as the trainers and trainees begin to filter out of the arena.

“Why’s that?” He hesitantly replies, ignoring the nickname in favour of narrowing his eyes at the two of them, figuring he just walked into one of their traps.

“We nominated you and Marco for recon duty tonight.” Connie’s laughter erupts now, and Jean honestly cannot fathom how this was amusing. At all.

“What the actual fuck you guys?”

Recon duty, on top of training for the upcoming hunts was not something that boded well for Jean, and he watches them with increasing annoyance. He’s pretty sure they’re doing this out of spite, for the previous times Jean weaselled his way out of clean up duty with false declarations that he and Marco were training (when really they had gone home to catch up on some much needed sleep).

“We thought you and Marco deserve more ‘alone time’ together.” Is Sasha’s reply, her lips curved up into a smile that’s far too innocent to be normal. But Connie breaks that presumption by the ridiculous expression that’s on his face.

“I hate you guys.” He gruff out, though there’s no real malice behind his words. He was more concerned over Marco’s reaction, and glances up in time to see a hooded figure walking over to their section.

Jean knows its Marco. Not by the way the other walked, or by that carefully hidden smile that seemed to be reserved for Jean, and Jean only. No. He knows because Marco is the only damn hunter that would ever think of walking over to the trainee’s side of the arena.

Sasha and Connie have long since abandoned Jean, leaving him sitting in the empty stands like an idiot. He stretches his legs out, not bothering to get up as of yet, simply staring up at Marco when he comes to stand by Jean.

“You heard we got ‘picked’ for recon duty?” He mumbles out, lips drawn down into his usual frown.

“Yeah, but tonight’s supposed to be quiet. So it shouldn’t be too bad.”

This is the Marco he’s used to, the one who’s always looking to see the positive in things, that will seek to cheer Jean up, even when he knows it might not work. With a snort, he shakes his head, biting down at his tongue momentarily to stop himself from smiling.

“So I guess I’ll see you in a few hours then? At the usual spot?”

Marco nods his head, before he moves to tug down his hood, exposing his messy undercut, and his less than restrained smile.

“Can’t wait.”

And as Marco turns to walk away, disappearing back into the hallways, Jean can’t help but stare up at the dull expanse of sky that stretched across the arena, a heavy breath escaping his chest.

Tonight was going to be hell.


End file.
